'But her wealth--her wealth!' I thought. 'True she may suffer, but how
gloriously she is solaced! She may weep, but the angels of social life
wipe off her tears with perfumed linen, gold embroidered; she may
grieve, but her grief makes her joys so much the more blissful. Ah!
she is to be envied after all!--envied, while I, a very beggar, might
well scorn my place now!'

Something of this might have been in my face, as I offered my sick
companion some small attention--I forget what--gathering up one of her
luxurious trifles, or arranging her cushions. She seemed almost to
read my thoughts as her eyes rested on my melancholy face; and saying
abruptly: 'I fear you are unhappy, young man?' she settled herself in
her place like a person prepared to listen to a pleasant tale.

'I am unfortunate, madam,' I answered.

'Unfortunate?' she said impatiently. 'What! with youth and health, can
you call yourself unfortunate? When the whole world lies untried
before you, and you still live in the golden atmosphere of hope, can
you pamper yourself with sentimental sorrows? Fie upon you!--fie upon
you! What are your sorrows compared with mine?'

'I am ignorant of yours, madam,' I said respectfully; 'but I know my
own; and, knowing them, I can speak of their weight and bitterness. By
your very position, you cannot undergo the same kind of distress as
that overwhelming me at this moment: you may have evils in your path
of life, but they cannot equal mine.'

'Can anything equal the evils of ruined health and a desolated